


Tear(Jerk)ers

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, american author writing french characters as british, and athos needs all the hugs, aramis and d'artagnan are little shits basically, boys as flatmates, crying over movies is a time-honored tradition, porthos is a total dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which our four heroes are manly men who totally don't cry at movies. Totally don't. Not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. D'Artagnan

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Katbelle's There's No Such a Thing as Avengers' Movie Night. Contains spoilers for any of the movies they're watching, but I will try not to pick terribly recent ones, so nothing should really be off-limits.

It starts out innocently enough: just four flatmates organizing their communal DVD collection. Well, Athos is doing most of the organizing, to be fair. Aramis and d'Artagnan are mostly getting into arguments over every other movie and Porthos finds himself too distracted by all three of them to be of much assistance. They're fucking _funny_ , is all, and Porthos doesn't even think they're trying to be.

For instance: just as Athos holds aloft two copies of _Pacific Rim_ and announces, in a terribly serious voice, that he's found another set of doubles, Aramis lets out an affronted gasp. “Never?” he repeats, in a voice loud enough that even Athos gets distracted. “For fuck's sake.”

Aramis turns to Porthos and Athos to gain their support. “D'Artagnan has never seen _E.T._ ”

Porthos raises his eyebrow.

“It's a classic!” Aramis continues, holding the DVD up tenderly. “Seriously one of my favorites. Of all time. How did you not see this growing up?”

“It was fairly early in the eighties,” Athos points out, reasonably. Aramis groans.

“Christ Allmighty. He wasn't even born yet!”

“Neither were you!” Porthos laughs, jabbing a finger at the 1982 release date displayed primly on the back cover.

“At least I'm not _literally a decade younger_!” Aramis retorts, and d'Artagnan giggles.

“I'm _more_ than a decade younger than that,” he announces devilishly. “How does that make you feel?”

“Old,” Aramis sighs, hiding his head in his hands, and d'Artagnan steals the DVD from out of his lap.

“What's it about?”

“ _He doesn't even know what it's about_ ,” Aramis breathes, as Porthos replies, a bit more helpfully, “this kid finds an alien in his backyard and they become friends. Go on adventures and stuff. Drew Barrymore's in it.”

“Really?” d'Artagnan asks, interest piqued.

“How old do you think Drew Barrymore was thirty-odd years ago?” Athos drawls, and d'Artagnan frowns.

“It still seems kind of good,” he admits, scanning the back cover. Aramis lifts his head, brightening.

“If you watch it, I'll forgive you for being born in the nineties.”

D'Artagnan grins. “All right.” He crawls over to the television and plops down in front of it. Athos sighs.

“I didn't mean now,” Aramis laughs. “I think Athos'll murder us.”

“No, no,” Athos replies, pushing to his feet. “I'll put this all together some time when none of you are around. It'll be faster that way.”

“That's the spirit,” Aramis replies happily, looking rather pleased at the progression of events.

He and Porthos claim the bigger sofa, which faces the tele more directly; Athos sits at the closer end of the smaller one. Rather than sit beside Athos, d'Artagnan plops to the floor at Aramis and Porthos' feet. Despite how this all came about, he is visibly excited, and inches closer to the screen as the movie begins to play.

D'Artagnan loves it. Aramis crosses his arms and regards the kid with a smug look on his face as d'Artagnan laughs and gasps and vocally marvels at Elliot and his companion. Athos disappears for a few minutes. He returns with a bowl of popcorn, which d'Artagnan pounces upon eagerly.

His cheer does not diminish for a good while. But eventually, as Elliot and E.T. fall ill, d'Artagnan quiets and scoots backwards, leaning against the empty sofa between Porthos and Aramis. Absorbed in the movie himself, Porthos does hardly notices that silence has fallen-- until it is broken.

“He leaves?!” d'Artagnan shrieks. “He fucking leaves?”

“Well, yeah,” Aramis replies, frowning in bemusement. “Wasn't it obvious?”

“No!” D'Artagnan's voice is shrill. He rounds on Aramis furiously, and Porthos feels a little tug at his heart when he sees that the kid is _crying_. “It was _not_ obvious and I can't believe you've made me watch this!”

“Quiet,” Aramis hisses, “you're missing the ending.”

D'Artagnan glares savagely, wiping his flooded cheeks, and Aramis sighs. “C'mere, then.” The next thing Porthos knows, the kid has installed himself between them on the sofa and is letting Aramis rub his back while he watches the screen in dismay.

“I'll... be... right... here,” E.T. promises. D'Artagnan whimpers, tears bubbling up ever more violently, and Porthos reaches over and settles his hand at the base of the kid's neck.

“He left,” d'Artagnan murmurs, as the credits begin. Despite Aramis' confirmation, it seems he was waiting until the last minute for the alien to come back, for it all to not be true. “'sthere a sequel?”

“No?” Aramis replies, disdain evident, and d'Artagnan lets out a sob. “Why the fuck would you need a sequel to one of the most perfectly elegant movies of all time?”

D'Artagnan sobs again, turning instead to Porthos, who wraps one arm around the kid's trembling shoulders, but can't keep from chuckling.

It's Athos who ultimately comes to the rescue. He pulls d'Artagnan to his feet and pats his arm stoically while d'Artagnan gulps back the rest of his tears.

“If we're going to make a habit out of this,” Athos drawls, “I suggest we be a bit less sober next time.”

“We're not going to make a habit out of this,” d'Artagnan whimpers, defiantly, and glares at Aramis again when he laughs.


	2. Aramis

Of course, they make a habit out of it-- or perhaps more than a habit, a competition. D'Artagnan is hellbent on revenge. Athos is hellbent on drinking at even the slightest sign of communal emotion, and that's how the next few nights find them in various states of drunkenness, watching their youngest try furiously to draw a reaction from their second youngest.

Aramis regards the kid with haughty self-satisfaction. “The sensitivity's just for the benefit of the attractive folk,” he sniffs. “No, go on, keep trying. I'm just warning you. I don't mind a good cry, but it's fairly hard to get me there.”

And that's how they find themselves dragged through _Good Will Hunting_ , then _Toy Story_ , then _Armageddon_ , and the only person d'Artagnan manages to bring to tears is himself. Porthos-- who as a general rule cries fairly easily at such things-- holds it in, not so much for the sake of dignity as for the sake of leaving the attention on d'Artagnan. Because, well. He's brought it on himself.

“Jesus,” d'Artagnan huffs, drying his eyes on his overlong sleeves and glaring daggers at Aramis. “You do realize he sacrificed himself for-- oh-- _shit_ \--”

“You do realize I'd seen _Armageddon_ before, yes?” Aramis laughs. “Had you?”

“No! I just googled what movies make you cry.”

“Bravo, mate. Meaning I was prepared, and you were not.”

Porthos looks over to Athos for assistance; Athos shrugs and pushes to his feet. “I'm going to bed,” he declares. “I shall see you all tomorrow for our ritual lachrymal Olympics.”

“Mm,” Aramis replies. “Eventually we'll get somebody to join d'Artagnan on the medal podium.”

“Piss off,” d'Artagnan grouches, and blows his nose vigorously; Aramis laughs and claps him on the back.

“Go for the gold.”

It's a game now, even if it hadn't been before. As they gather the next evening, Porthos is actually fairly curious about what d'Artagnan will have chosen. He looks pleased, at least, as he sets up the DVD. Athos enters with a large bottle of whiskey and four glasses, and Aramis arrives last, settling comfortably next to Porthos. “What's the selection tonight?”

Smirking, d'Artagnan holds up _Forrest Gump_.

Aramis yawns. “Mm. Life is like a box of chocolates. I already know his mum dies, d'Artagnan. I got that far. But we can watch it if you like.”

“You got _that far_?” D'Artagnan cocks an eyebrow. “How far did you get?”

“Somewhere around there. I don't mean to offend, but I don't find it quite the masterpiece everyone else does.”

“What was the last time you watched it?”

Aramis shrugs. “Dunno. College, maybe.”

“All right.”

The movie begins; it's been a while since Porthos has seen it too, and he finds himself genuinely enjoying it. The others seem to as well, even Aramis. Athos distributes whiskey at regular intervals, until Porthos, already pleasantly warm, shakes his head and puts his glass down; D'Artagnan soon follows suit.

Aramis keeps drinking, cocksure and relaxed. Even as Ms. Gump dies, he is at ease, reacting no more than to give Porthos' shoulder a quick squeeze as Porthos holds back his tears.

Nevertheless he tenses a little when Jenny tells Forrest she's sick. And his hand shakes when he reaches out and seizes his drink, downing it.

“D'dn't realize,” he begins, almost conversationally-- then purses his lips as his voice wobbles slightly. Half of Porthos is watching Aramis, and half of Porthos is watching d'Artagnan watch Aramis.

There's a few minutes of silence.

Then Jenny dies.

Aramis bursts into tears.

“Hah!” d'Artagnan crows. “Hah! Take that!”

“'snot funny!” Aramis sobs, face red and scrunched and criss-crossed with saltwater streaks. “'sreally, _really_ sad, d'Arta'nan! Jenny just-- she f'ckin'--”

“Be a good sport, mate!”

“Momma always said dyin' was a part of life,” Forrest narrates. “I sure wish it wasn't.”

Aramis lets out a sound that could probably break hearts under the right circumstances, and screws his eyes shut. D'Artagnan looks guilty now, if only slightly. He picks up a pillow and thrusts it at Aramis, who shoves it into Porthos' lap and then collapses on top of it, in a drippy, booze-soaked heap.

“You had no idea she died, did you?”

Aramis shakes his head, keeps right on crying. Porthos works his fingers into the man's hair and scratches lightly at his scalp.

Aramis calms down and sits up in time to watch the feather float away. “Thassa really good movie,” he declares, woozily, once it ends. Then, not half a beat later: “I hate it.”

“Thought you didn't mind a good cry,” Porthos notes, lightly. Aramis sniffles and rubs his eyes, actually looking decently upset. “Are you all right?” Aramis nods, hiccups, and hides his face against Porthos' neck.

“'s a conspiracy, him 'n' Athos. Never woulda done that t'me if I haddna been so drunk.” He swings around to glare at the other two, but they have already retreated from the room.

“Well, go to sleep. And drink some damn water first,” Porthos replies, because it's true that Aramis is drunker than he'd realized.

Drunk enough, apparently, not to care how he comes across when he grabs onto Porthos' shirtfront and whimpers, “not yet. Please. Need a f'ckin' hug.”

“All right,” Porthos sighs. Aramis burrows gratefully into his arms.

And that's where they stay, warm and silent, until Aramis begins to snore; Porthos rouses him gently and sees him to bed.


	3. Porthos

It's been a few weeks, now, since d'Artagnan's victory. Aramis had spent the next day shuffling around the apartment, hungover and scandalized; d'Artagnan had spent it mostly feigning innocence, but also darting in for a brief, ungentle hug when he didn't know Porthos was watching. Movie nights have waned, and when they do occur consist mostly of explosion-heavy material.

But, Porthos decides, with a bit too much gravity even just in his own head-- _it's time_.

He's nervous. Watching _Lord of the Rings_ with someone else, as ever, calls to mind the feeling that he is cracking open his chest and shyly offering up his own soul for judgment. It's _intimate_. And this is without mention how he _knows_ he'll be a mess, because he basically always is where Frodo and company are concerned.

He doesn't know why he feels compelled, but he does. In some weird way what started as a spontaneous thing and evolved into a pissing contest actually makes him feel like he's gotten to know his friends better-- gotten to know that d'Artagnan, so brash and hot-headed in life, will weep for lost innocence and noble sacrifice and pretty much anything with a decent score; that Aramis, so open at first blush, will hold onto indifference and nonchalance until his tears have built to such a pressure that they veritably explode.

Now it's his turn. There will probably be no better time to come clean about the fact that he cries himself silly over Hobbits. Ritually. In a ten-hour marathon of beer and chocolate bars and tissues that has occurred at least once a year for pretty much his entire adult life.

Not that he'll subject them to that. No. Just _Fellowship_ , and they'll see how it goes from there.

Initial reactions are not promising. As he gathers them all together, Aramis groans loudly, and d'Artagnan curls up on the sofa besides Athos, not seeming to care that he can't see the screen well. Porthos falters a bit, but plunges forward.

The opening sequence captivates him, as always; and when it ends, when the lilting music begins and Hobbiton appears, Porthos sighs with happiness. It feels like stepping into warm water, like laying your head down after a long, hard day. For the first hour or so, he forgets to even peek at the others.

And when he does, he wishes he hadn't. D'Artagnan is on his phone; Aramis has relocated onto the floor and looks to be roughly 70% asleep. Porthos can't help but feel that his soul has been judged unfavorably.

Maybe his disappointment pulls him out of the world of Middle Earth, or maybe he just feels shut down-- whatever the reason, Porthos finds himself utterly dry-eyed through Gandalf's fall. He tugs the afghan around himself, vulnerable and unhappy and unable to let go.

He must make a noise or something, because Aramis rolls over and gazes up at him. “All right?” Porthos nods, obviously lying, and Aramis heaves a dramatic sigh. “You're a big fucking nerd. Both of you. Sorry you're mad at me for not joining in.” He rolls back over. But Porthos' mind has latched onto one word.

 _Both_?

Porthos glances over at d'Artagnan, who is still enthralled with whatever app he's on. But in looking at d'Artagnan-- he catches sight of Athos.

Athos is _into_ it.

Porthos has been forgetting to even take stock of their quietest friend, mostly because he watches movies with the same impassive expression with which most people buy toilet paper. But now his eyes are lit up. His mouth is open slightly as he takes in the scenery of Lothlórien, and he has all but forgotten the drink in his hand.

“Jesus,” Aramis mutters, but Porthos can't stop smiling. All the tightness inside of him has unwound, and he curls up comfortably in the crook of the sofa. His head rests easily on the arm of the it, not far from Athos' hand.

Everything inside of him is loose and ready to spill; as Boromir gives his life defending Merry and Pippin, Porthos' eyes sting and blur. This only intensifies as Frodo flees to the shore of the river. And as Sam sinks under the water, face slackening, reaching out a hand to be saved, Porthos feels the warm wash of tears swell over his bottom lashes and pour down his cheeks at last.

Porthos presses a hand to his mouth. He isn't embarrassed to cry, but hardly wants to be dramatic, either; instead he just lets slip a few muffled sobs and one loud sniffle.

What happens next is utterly unexpected.

Warm fingers fit soothingly into the crook of his neck, squeezing-- and though he isn't _upset_ , far from it honestly, the combination of catharsis and camaraderie is so powerful that his cracked-open chest seems to have set him free, somehow.

And the hand-- the hand is _Athos'?_

After the credits, after Porthos has sat up and dried his eyes, Aramis crawls back up onto the sofa and hugs him lazily. “You are _actually_ the _biggest_ fucking nerd I've ever met,” he announces, and Porthos laughs. His spirits fall a bit, though, as Aramis adds, “you're on your own for the next two.”

Only, he isn't. The following night finds Aramis and d'Artagnan down at the pub, but Porthos and Athos right where they were the night before. Athos doesn't cry with him. But he does drink with him, and pass him tissues, and ask surprisingly ardent questions about the plot. Porthos answers with undisguised glee.

And the third night finds Athos actually beside him on the closer sofa, which is convenient, because _Return_ is the part of the trilogy where Porthos breaks down at least three or four times. And for the last twenty minutes solid. But Athos is nothing if not patient, and gracious; he rubs Porthos' back whenever he needs it, until Porthos finally just slings an arm around Athos' shoulders and pulls him in like his own personal comfort item.

The trilogy ends too soon, as always. Porthos tries not to make any sappy analogies about the friendship he treasures onscreen and the friendship he feels right now, in real life, as Athos pats his knee and doesn't stand up first.

The sappy analogies come anyway.

Porthos clears his gummed-up throat and begins to push to his feet-- then thinks better of it, and sinks back down to the sofa. He's happy. Happy and warm and he just doesn't want to move yet.

It's the icing on the cake when Athos leans over, and, in a terribly formal whisper, requests to borrow the books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up quite differently from how I expected. I guess I really just want Porthos to be cozy and fuzzy and healthy and warm. He's pretty much just a large, rowdy Hobbit, in the end.
> 
> Next up... an interlude. (What does that mean? Come back and find out...)


	4. Interlude I

There's a line, Porthos knows, between the kind of crying that happens because of a movie, and the kind of crying that happens during a movie because the movie has brought something else to mind.

He's crossed this line before, more than once. But it hasn't been during this recent, inexplicable spate of semi-public catharsis; it's been private, on the drive home from a theatre, behind a locked bedroom door. He can't be the only one it's ever happened to, though he is possibly more susceptible than most.

But this thing-- this whatever it is-- has not delved so terribly deep for him, and even though d'Artagnan has cried frequently and Aramis almost _violently_ , Porthos is fairly sure they've remained firmly on the near side of that line as well.

It just so happens that they step across it together.

It goes like this:

D'Artagnan says, “I want to watch a movie.”

And then Aramis says, “I vote for _Avengers_.”

And then d'Artagnan says, “Constance lent me this, she really wants me to watch it, watch it with me?”

And Aramis doesn't really want to because it isn't _Avengers_ , and Athos doesn't really want to because it's a musical, and Porthos doesn't really want to because it looks pretty sad and he's just not in the mood.

But d'Artagnan shrugs and poses reasonably that if they're distracted by how ridiculous musicals are they won't _be_ sad, and that's how _Les Mis_ ends up on the screen.

It isn't _bad_. Porthos is just having an off day-- stress at work, didn't sleep well, is maybe fighting a cold or something-- and instead of really paying attention he buries himself in the afghan and lets his eyes slip shut.

But he's never been able to ignore something put in front of him. Eventually, Porthos finds himself Val Jean watching, first with complicity, then with growing curiosity as time skips ahead and Fantine arrives. She's lovely. Not just because Anne Hathaway is beautiful-- though she is-- there's just a tug at his heart as she pleads on behalf of her daughter, and Porthos finds himself rooting for her more than any other character. He hopes she'll be all right.

Soon, of course, it becomes clear that she is not.

Porthos feels an ache rising, clamping down within his belly as Fantine sells herself piece by piece, moreso as it becomes clear that she is ill. By the time Val Jean carries her to the hospital, he is shaking. And by the time Fantine breathes her last, tears are streaming down his cheeks.

Aramis snorts as he notices. “Jesus, already?” he whispers. "We aren't even an hour in!"

Porthos had thought he was being discreet-- apparently not. “Sorry,” he huffs, trying to laugh about it but crying more instead.

He can feel the moment that Aramis realizes he's more than just transiently weepy. “What's wrong?”

“Nothin'. Tired.”

“Porthos?”

“Stop fussin'.”

“If it's too much with Fantine, we can turn it off.”

Porthos chokes on a laugh, or maybe a sob. For all his thickheadesness, Aramis is startling perceptive sometimes, has seen right through to the center of things: a poor, sick woman dying half a country away from her beloved child--

Porthos shrugs helplessly. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn't mean to make it serious.”

“No, Christ, it's all right.” It's d'Artagnan who's speaking now, and suddenly Porthos realizes he has everybody's attention. The duel between Val Jean and Javert is forgotten on the screen.

“Do you want us to turn it off?” Athos asks quietly.

“No! Jesus,” Porthos chuckles, wiping his nose. “'m bein' a wanker. Total wanker.”

“What else is new,” Aramis says smoothly. “Come here.”

Biting his lip to keep from crying any more, Porthos scoots over and folds to fit himself under Aramis' arm. With the warm weight around him, his tears wane and cease. But still he can't ignore that they had been a different sort of tears, and even though everyone stayed pretty calm about it, he'd pretty sure they all know it too.

He crossed that damn line.

But though he was the first, he isn't the last.

The movie progresses. Porthos takes comfort from Cosette's adoption, calms down and relaxes enough to pull away from Aramis' side. The story seems calmer too-- and then it doesn't.

Probably Porthos should have realized that a lot of _Les Amis_ would die before the end, but Jesus, Marius is the _only_ one who makes it out? Shit. He leans once more against Aramis, not crying again but just not wanting to be alone, either. And it's then that he notices.

Aramis is weeping. Not the sort of dramatic, ugly crying he'd offered up last time, but a silent, somber slip of tears.

There's no need to ask him what he's thinking of.

“Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me, that I live and you are gone--”

Porthos reaches over and squeezes Aramis' arm. Aramis doesn't acknowledge-- can't seem to pull away from griefstricken face of Marius, lamenting his fallen brothers, lamenting the seeming meaninglessness of their demises.

Lamenting, in a way, his own survival.

Aramis keeps his eyes on the screen until the song ends, but once it's done he presses his face blindly against Porthos' shoulder. Porthos holds him tightly. D'Artagnan has climbed onto the sofa at his other side, and there's a nudge on Porthos' opposite elbow as Athos passes over the tissue box.

When Aramis lifts his head, he smiles bashfully. When Aramis lifts his head, he takes one of the offered tissues, dries his eyes, and dabs his running nose. When Aramis lifts his head, he kisses Porthos' cheek and slaps d'Artagnan's back.

But Aramis doesn't lift his head for a long time.

In the end, Cosette seems destined for happiness, which is what Porthos needed to see, and so does Marius, which is what Aramis needed in turn. So maybe they'll get through it with no more hearts breaking.

Or maybe not.

Val Jean dies.

He dies old and beloved and surrounded by family, and so Porthos feels a sting at his eyes, but nothing more. Aramis, likewise, is calm in the aftermath of his sorrow.

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, presses a hand against his mouth and begins to cry quietly.

Aramis laughs weakly, pulls him in for a hug.

“Figured I'd round it out, I guess,” d'Artagnan says, and offers a sloppy sniffle.

The credits are inching their way down the screen, but Porthos feels exactly no motivation whatsoever to move. He's-- drained. Emptied. Not in a bad way but in an exhausting way, and all he really wants to do is continue sitting in this pile of limbs and quiet, companionable sadness.

Somewhere along the way this had become a game. Not a mean-spirited or an inappropriate game, but nevertheless one that had made him forget the value of catharsis itself. He feels _better_. In the sleepy, sort of subtle way that you feel better even though you hadn't known anything was wrong in the first place. Aramis is a thick line of warmth against his side. D'Artagnan's sleepy, stuffy breathing fills the air, reminds Porthos of his presence on the other end of the sofa. They stepped across the line together, and returned together as well.

“The one with the little Cockney kid is stuck in my _fucking_ head,” d'Artagnan grouches at last; they all laugh, and this strengthens them enough to rise.

Only then does Porthos realize that Athos has already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this end up simultaneously more serious AND more crack-y than I originally intended? I guess the good thing is I'm finished writing, and from here on in it's much more lighthearted than this bit. Mostly. But just as crack-y. Ugh.
> 
> In other news, I'm about 15,000 words into my next real chapterfic. I think I'll wait until after series 2 ends to post so I can make it canon-compliant (and it'll take me that long to finish anyway), but I'm excited because it's my first chapterfic set in the series' present day, as opposed to pre-canon or modern AU. So... look out for it in a few months, I guess? In the meantime I've got another 2015!boys plotbunny that may show up sooner. Anyways. Thanks as always for reading and commenting!


	5. Interlude II

The fire alarm rips Porthos from sleep. Heart racing, he tumbles out of bed, pulls on a hoodie, and grabs his phone from his nightstand. In the hallway, Aramis is banging on d'Artagnan's door. D'Artagnan emerges, looking sleepily disgruntled, nearly bumping into Athos, who is tying up his dressing gown. “'snever real,” d'Artagnan grouches, jamming his feet into the nearest pair of shoes while Porthos and Athos both grab keys.

“The one you sleep through will be,” Aramis replies firmly, ushering them out the front door. Porthos agrees with both of them. With neighbors like the ones in 3B, this happens nearly once a month; nevertheless, it's really no good telling yourself _oh, well, this isn't one_.

However, naturally, this isn't one. This becomes clear as the four of them gather on the lawn with the rest of the building's residents, and the people from 3B look rather shame-faced.

It's just a bit past midnight, just about an hour since they'd managed to get themselves off to bed; Porthos had fallen asleep with surprising ease, despite his worry that the want of his mother would return to him in the dark. He'd been sleeping well, feeling warm and secure.

Until a _certain_ flat had managed to set something alight. Again. Hopefully nothing living this time.

Porthos rubs his eyes, trying simultaneously to seem coherent but also not wake up so much that he won't be able to sleep again. Athos is standing a little to the side, shivering in his thin gown. D'Artagnan announces with despair that he's put on Aramis' shoes and they don't fit him; Aramis, it turns out, has put on a pair of Porthos', which are the same size as d'Artagnan's own, and they clumsily begin to switch.

Porthos goes over to stand by Athos. It's probably a matter of pride, for himself and for his sense of style, not to admit that he's freezing his balls off, and Porthos figures at least maybe he can stand close and offer some manner of warmth.

But what he sees sends a shock of ice through his own heart.

Athos has been crying. His nose is pink, which Porthos thinks briefly may be from the cold-- but no, they haven't been outside long enough for that, and as he steps closer it's clear that Athos' eyes are swollen and bloodshot and still a little wet.

Aramis and d'Artagnan have imposed themselves on the nearest neighbor with a dog. Confident that their conversation won't be noticed, Porthos leans in close and whispers, “what's wrong?”

“Mm? Nothing's wrong,” Athos replies. He sounds a bit congested.

“Bullshit,” Porthos presses, worried now, and Athos shakes his head.

“I'm all right.”

“You've been--”

“Yes.”

“'m not tryin' to pry. Just tell me you're all right.”

“I've already told you that,” Athos points out, reasonably, but then sniffles, and the aura of composure cracks under such a pathetic little sound.

“You seemed fine when we were watchin' the movie,” Porthos frets, brow knitting. The thought of the man weeping alone in his bedroom, undiscovered but for a mistimed fire alarm, makes his stomach feel a bit sick.

“ _Porthos_ ,” Athos intones, voice steady but tightening with a hint of frustration, “I am _fine_. Nothing happened.”

And then Porthos puts two and two together, gets four, and curses.

“'s the fuckin' movie.”

Athos says nothing.

“Christ, they actually do get you.”

Fresh tears swell up in Athos' eyes.

“Are you-- d'you-- Jesus, Ath,” Porthos murmurs, stepping closer. “How many of these fuckin' things've actually upset you?”

Athos' smile is watery as it is wry. “Not all of them?” he offers, and it's a question, like he's not entirely sure himself. Christ, had this been going on the whole time? “Fuck,” Porthos grunts, and pulls Athos to his chest; Athos hesitates, putting up well more than a token protest.

But when he gives in, he _gives in_. Athos buries his face in Porthos' neck and lets out the tiniest of sobs, shivering from cold and rare overt emotion. “I'm sorry, mate,” Porthos murmurs.

“It's all right,” Athos replies, but the spill of tears is clear in his voice. Porthos worries briefly about how easily this situation could turn embarrassing, but then decides two things: their neighbors are much too busy being cold and cranky to notice them, and even if they do notice, Porthos is much more concerned with Athos anyway.

“ _Les Misérables_ ,” he sighs _._ “It's literally fuckin' called, _the people who are miserable_ , an' we said, well, it's a musical, how seriously are we gonna take it?”

“ _The Wretched_ is actually a better translation,” Athos informs him. His voice is muffled by Porthos' hoodie, but he sounds a bit less tearful than he did a minute ago.

“Oh, great,” Porthos scoffs, rubbing Athos' back. “Much better. Practically sunny.”

It's then that there's a general hum of pleasure around the lawn, and someone cheers sarcastically as it's clear they're being let back in. Athos sniffs massively. He rubs his face against the hoodie's fabric, then sneaks a hand up in between their chests to make sure his eyes are suitably dry.

“Is Athos okay?” D'Artagnan and Aramis, fresh from a good round of dog-petting, have joined them once more.

Porthos frowns seriously and shakes his head. Clutching the man to him, he sighs, “it's too late to save his feet an' hands, but if we get 'im inside now, his balls may eventually find their way out again.”

Aramis gives a snort of laughter and punches Porthos on the shoulder. “A true gentleman would have offered his hoodie, then.”

“And sacrificed my own lads?” Porthos gasps, as Athos pulls away at last and hunches down into himself discreetly.

Back inside, d'Artagnan kicks off Porthos' shoes and returns immediately to bed. The others linger a moment in the kitchen-- Porthos because Athos has done so, and Aramis because the two of them have.

“Tea?” Porthos offers calmly, and they both nod. Athos sinks into a chair at the table.

“Still cold?” Aramis prompts, looming over Athos as Porthos switches on the kettle.

“A bit.”

“Hang on.”

By the time Porthos is pouring the water into the mugs, Aramis has retrieved the afghan from the sofa and bundled it tightly around Athos' narrow shoulders. Athos peeks out of his cocoon with drowsy, slow-blinking eyes. Aramis himself has fallen asleep at the table with his chin balanced on crossed arms, and does not stir when Porthos sets his tea down before him.

Porthos sits quietly in the chair beside Athos. He watches a slender hand emerge from the afghan, latch onto the mug handle, and bring the tea up to be thoughtfully blown cool.

“Still waters, eh?” Porthos murmurs. “You all right?”

Athos nods.

“Nobody'd judge you, you know. Well, I mean, they would, but only outta love.”

Athos just lowers his head; Porthos takes this as permission, and musses a hand through Athos' hair.

“It's two thousand and _fucking_ fifteen. You want a cry, have a damn cry.”

“I believe I did, did I not?”

“With us,” Porthos corrects, frowning. “'fyou can't make an arse of yourself with us, when can you?”

“Is is really so much different?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says at once-- startled by the question, then startled by the ease of his own answer. “It feels-- nice.”

Athos stares pensively down at his tea for a moment before taking a careful sip. “It looked nice,” he admits. His expression is thoughtful and hopeful and faintly lost.

Then Aramis stirs and grabs clumsily at his tea, and they finish in comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my friends, I am painfully aware of how contrived that fire alarm was. Roll with it.
> 
> Next chapter's the last. Thanks as always to all those who read and leave kudos, and especially to those who comment :) you make me smile!


	6. Athos

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I won't.”

“Then leave, mate! Nobody's tied you down.”

“They don't want to watch it either!”

Porthos chuckles. “It isn't my first choice,” he admits, at the same time as Athos declares that he wants to be left out of the argument.

D'Artagnan folds his arms across his chest, but if it's supposed to look stubborn and strong-willed the effect is rather dulled by how he tucks his hands neatly into his armpits. “Aramis, I've never even seen the bloody thing and I can tell you what it's about!”

“Yeah?” Aramis challenges.

“Yeah! Two princesses, sisters, and one is magic and the other one wants to build a snowman. Only the magic sister doesn't want to, because she already built one and it came to life and it's fucking creepy. Then she, like, lets it go and they both find boyfriends. The end.”

Aramis looks truly, deeply scandalized. “First of all. First of all, no, d'Artagnan. No matter how many memes you've seen about wanting to build a snowman, _Frozen_ is, in fact, not about building a snowman.”

“But there's a fucking snowman.”

“Well, yes--”

“Hah!”

“--but he's not as annoying as you think he'll be!”

This goes on for a few more minutes, until Aramis lunges at the DVD player and sticks the disc in rebelliously, and d'Artagnan glares and flops down on the floor to watch.

“You're just scared I'll make you cry again,” Aramis teases, settling beside him.

D'Artagnan huffs. “There's a talking fucking snowman that looks like the ass end of a pear. Don't think it's the kind of movie any of us'll cry at.”

Porthos feels himself smirk. That's a statement that begs for trouble.

In any case, _Frozen_ is a pretty good movie. It's visually well done, which Porthos can appreciate, and the songs are really pretty catchy. For the most part. With a notable exception. By the time Anna reaches Elsa's palace, Porthos realizes he's genuinely engaged; when Elsa, in fear, casts a blast of ice that reaches Anna's heart, Porthos feels his own heart speed up. He glances around to take in his friends' reactions.

Aramis is tilted towards the television, though he clearly has seen this before and therefore knows how it will end. D'Artagnan has abandoned his pretense of disinterest. He too has sat forward and is regarding the screen with utmost interest. And Athos--

Porthos' heart accelerates once again.

Athos is crying.

He makes no move to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks, and for the life of him Porthos can't decide if he's trying not to call attention to himself or if he's genuinely okay with being seen. He hopes it's the latter. And indeed, there's something calm and almost deliberate about the way in which he's letting the tears come.

Nevertheless, there's a panic as soon as the others notice. D'Artagnan lunges to shut the movie off, and Aramis leaps to his feet and hesitates awkwardly before throwing himself beside Athos and wrapping him up in a massive hug.

Athos sniffles; for a moment he looks embarrassed, then he just looks amused. “Why did you shut it off?”

Aramis frowns, releasing him but staying at his side. “It's upset you. We didn't actually want to upset you.”

Athos tugs his sleeve down over his hand and dabs his nose with it. “I'm not upset.”

“You're _crying_ ,” d'Artagnan mumbles.

“Nothing you haven't all done at least once by now.”

“Yeah, but--” d'Artagnan begins, then trails off. “Eh-- you're _you_. Jesus, if anyone, I thought it'd be Porthos.”

“Hey!”

“I wasn't aware my stoicism was such the stuff of legend,”Athos drawls.

Aramis is frowning at him as though fitting together the pieces of an all-sky puzzle. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes!” There is an edge of amusement, or possibly annoyance, to Athos' voice. “It's a nice movie and it's just-- made me cry.”

“I think I should stay with you just in case,” Aramis concludes suspiciously, and even though Athos rolls his eyes he doesn't seem to mind the arm that hooks itself through his elbow. D'Artagnan hesitates, but starts the movie again.

Athos' tears come to a stop as Anna and Kristoff flee from the snow monster, then visit the trolls. He watches quietly. Until Anna, pale and shaking, fumbles desperately for the kiss she thinks will save her-- and is rejected, coldly, cut off from the man she thought she loved and the man who really loves her, and her sister, who matters most of all.

That's when the tears begin again, a bit more forcefully this time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos is aware of Aramis leaning in, whispering something in Athos' ear. Athos sighs. “No, I _don't_ need to put my head on your shoulder, Aramis,” he mutters back, voice stuffy and wet; Aramis shrugs and puts his head on Athos' shoulder instead.

Athos rolls his eyes. But within a minute, whether consciously or not, he has tipped his head to the side so that it rests against Aramis'.

They're out on the ice now. Porthos finds himself watching Athos even more intently than he is watching the movie, proud and a little broken at the sight of his private friend's public display. Porthos feels trusted. He hopes Aramis and d'Artagnan have enough sense to feel the same.

He thinks they do. As Hans reaches Elsa, lies to her about her sister's fate, Aramis rubs Athos' knee briskly; he must be thinking of what Porthos is thinking of, what Athos himself must be thinking of.

And this, of course, is Thomas. Porthos never got to meet him, but has pieced him together from snippets and sidenotes, mostly offered up when Athos has been truly smashed. By all accounts, Thomas has always sounded sunny, kind. By all accounts he has always sounded like the brightness in Athos' younger years, the one who drilled straight through the icy exterior that Athos was maintaining even then. The story on screen is hauntingly familiar. And so, as whatever climax is coming inches closer and closer to them, Porthos' eyes flick to Athos again and again and again.

Then Anna freezes.

Athos stops breathing. His hand trembles as he brings it up, rubs idly over his mouth. Aramis tugs him close as they watch.

It's a Disney movie, thank God; so there's a suitably cheerful, inspirational ending. Anna thaws, saved by her own loving heart. Athos' nose is running, lower lip quivering; Porthos wonders if it helps him or hurts him to watch Elsa almost-- but then not-- lose Anna.

They're all silent as the movie ends. It's not an embarrassed silence, though there is an element of uncertainty as they all process what's just happened. Eventually d'Artagnan shuts off the credits, and their warbly cover of _Let It Go_.

Athos sniffs, wipes his cheeks, and begins to rise; it's a pretty calm escape attempt, actually. Of course, it fails entirely.

D'Artagnan launches himself into Athos' lap, knocking him back down; he wraps his arms around his neck and and squeezes tightly. “Please,” d'Artagnan whispers, “please, never ever-- watch _Bambi_. Like, ever. Bleeding Jesus, you will literally drown yourself.”

“You're all making a rather big deal out of this.”

“Nope, I'm just-- standing corrected, is all.”

“Be good, d'Artagnan,” Aramis snorts, in a decent approximation of E.T.'s voice. The kid blushes.

“I want ice cream,” he announces, changing the subject, and in one smooth motion he ruffles Athos' hair, pushes himself up, and vaults over the back of the sofa towards the kitchen.

“Are you joking? It's the middle of winter!”

“The movie inspired me.”

Aramis presses a distracted kiss to Athos' forehead and disappears off after d'Artagnan, calling, “don't touch my fucking cookie dough!”

“But it's _the middle of winter_! Why'd you want it?”

Athos smiles fondly but does not turn to see them go; Porthos has passed him the tissue box and he occupies himself with blowing his nose a fair few times. Then he breathes in deeply, as though testing the efficacy of his newly-clear nasal passages.

Porthos frowns, inclines his head a little, trying to ask without asking:

_Was this all right? Are you are right?_

_Will you_ be _all right?_

Athos looks up at him; the stormy blue of his eyes is even more striking than usual against the little bloodshot streaks of red.

He nods, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's all she wrote. This turned into slightly more of a "real" thing than I intended, but nevertheless was great fun. Coming next is... either a fluffy modern AU about Athos getting a puppy or a super angsty death(ish) canon fic. Hah. Whichever I finish first.
> 
> Thanks to all who read, left kudos, and commented!


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